


Chosen Ones

by bresby



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene, also comes with a side of an author who was raised Catholic and has complicated feelings about that, any warnings that apply to Agnes's canonical story apply here, tma is a tragedy and I have Agnes feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25591567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bresby/pseuds/bresby
Summary: A missing scene between 169 and 170, where Jon meets a ghost on the outskirts of the Desolation’s domain.Or, Agnes Montague gives her thoughts on an ice cream cone she never ate, her annoyance with Christian symbolism, and what it means to have a calling.
Relationships: Jack Barnabas/Agnes Montague, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39
Collections: The Magnus Archives Flash Fanwork Challenge





	Chosen Ones

**Author's Note:**

> CW: discussion of fire/burns, suicide discussed in the context of Agnes’s canonical death
> 
> I hope this gets jossed because we get a real Agnes statement. But until then, I tried my hand at what she might think about her life and death.

Jon walked on, the fires of the desolation burning in the distance. They hadn’t yet fully left the desolation’s domain, but Jon could feel its strength lessening. Martin followed quietly with the occasional cough, unwilling to discuss what had happened just yet. 

Trees started dotting the landscape more frequently. “This better not be the forest fire area,” Martin joked, but he didn’t seem to find it at all funny.

“No, not quite,” Jon replied, and they walked a ways further, leaves crunching underfoot. As they continued, the scattered trees turned into a dense forest.

After a while, Jon paused, his breath stopping at the pain he suddenly sensed. The pain of burning was hardly unique to this place, but the emotion behind it was. There was no rage or fear to it. Instead, someone nearby burned with an indescribable, immense sadness. He also sensed another emotion, a strange one for such a place. Acceptance. Whoever it was, they completely and utterly accepted their fate.

“Wait a second,” Jon said. “There’s something I need to do.”

“Really? What now? I haven’t even coughed all of the smoke out of my lungs yet,” Martin replied, irritated.

“I know, it’s just...someone has something to tell me. You’ll be perfectly safe if you wait here.”

“I’m not sure about your definition of perfectly safe.” Martin glared at him.

“This is as safe or protected as anywhere you’d find in this place. Just rest a moment. Catch your breath. I’ll be back soon.” 

“Fine. But you better be right. Be careful.” 

“Aren’t I always?” Jon asked. Martin rolled his eyes in response, but he pecked him on the lips and briefly embraced him before plopping down on the ground.

Jon walked for a short ways, following the pull of the sadness. It wasn’t like the domains, not exactly. This felt like someone had a statement, one they desperately wanted to give him. Someone who hungered for their story to be told.

Finally, moving between some trees, he entered a clearing, where he found a spirit gently observing an unlit pyre. She was a tall woman with auburn hair, and she was ever so slightly transparent. She floated about two inches above the ground, and ghostly flames surrounded her. They licked at her feet and extended past the ends of her hair. Although they lacked the presence of real flames, the heat they gave off made the air hot and heavy.

“Agnes Montague?” he asked, but of course, he already knew the answer.

“Hello, archivist. Or do you prefer Jon?” she said, still looking at the pyre.

“Sorry?”

She turned and looked him dead in the eyes. “What would you like me to call you? Those like us get so few choices. I can give you that one, at least.” 

“Er, Jon, then. I got the sense you wanted to speak with me.”

“Yes. I’ve featured in lots of your stories, lots of your statements, haven’t I?” She smiled sadly. Jon doubted she had smiled any other way very often in her life.

“Well, yes. Being the head of a cult of the Desolation does tend to do that.”

“Head. Perhaps from a certain point of view. What I meant was that you have heard what everyone thought of me and what I meant to all of them. Now, you are going to listen to my point of view.” Her voice was so soft that he had to lean in against the heat to hear her, but she spoke with the utmost certainty. 

Jon nodded. Naturally, he hungered for her story. Even with all the fear in the world flooding through him, this story had power behind it, and the Eye wanted it desperately. And as a person, he thought she might be the closest thing he could find to someone who understood what he was now.

“Of course. That is what I do,” he said, attempting to sound casual. 

“Say it. Do it properly,” she said, her tone demanding. Didn’t she know that Jon could extinguish the last of her flame as easily as blinking? But the answer came to him instantly. Of course she did. But this was a woman raised to know she was very near a god. If she wanted you to do something, she expected that you would without question.

“Right. Statement of Agnes Montague, concerning her life and death. Statement taken posthumously. Statement begins.”

_ This place looks very much like the place where I was born before it was burned to make way for my birth. Not that I have any memories of the event, of course. I was shown pictures, though, as part of my studies. And what child wouldn’t want to hear the story of their birth? I’ve often wondered at what went through my mother’s mind in her last moments. The Cult of the Lightless Flame offers no promises of eternal reward. It promises nothing but delay to your final blaze of glory. Yet my mother gave even that brief delay up.  _

_ She gladly acted as a sacrifice for the cause, in what could almost be considered an act of altruism. I wonder if she ever saw the contradiction. Or if she, like most, could think of little beyond the pain when her time came. _

_ My memories start much younger than is normal for children. My first memory is from when I was about three years old. A younger member of the cult, who was as close to kind as a member of the Lightless Flame can get, had bought me an ice cream cone. I took it politely while trying to contain my excitement. It was tantalisingly colourful, a bright strawberry pink, and as I held it to my face I wondered at the unfamiliar sensation of cold.  _

_ Of course, before I could even start to eat it, it melted, leaving a sticky mess covering my hands and face that seconds later started to boil. Like any three-year-old, I threw an unholy tantrum at this turn of events, beating my fists against the legs of the woman who so cruelly gave me a treat I could not enjoy. And in my rage I felt it. A call, an enormous sense of rightness saying, “Yes. This is who you are. I am you, and as you feed I shall feed, and together we shall do great things.” _

_ The next thing I knew, the woman was dead, her flesh melted over my hands and clothes. A hot, pink, sticky mess, not that different from the ice cream moments before. I didn’t cry. I’m told I didn’t even cry after I was born. I must have made quite the picture, standing there in my pigtails, covered in her scorched remains with my little fists clenched. _

_ The other cult members, once they had gotten over their horror and delight, tried to comfort me. They told me that I was destined for much greater things than ice cream. I had a purpose, a calling, a vocation. A solemn duty to bring about their grand ritual. Of course, I hardly understood a word at the time. But I understood that they thought I was special, and that this meant I couldn’t have another ice cream cone.  _

_ I think that’s when they all stopped touching me. Even those strong enough to touch me and survive did so as little as possible. At first I didn’t understand, reaching out to be picked up and carried like any child. But I learned quickly enough. My place in this world was to be elevated above all others, but also to be seperate from them. _

_ As I grew I wondered at the name my mother gave me. Agnes. It’s a latinized form of a Greek word meaning pure or chaste. I suppose there is a purity to the flame, a purification of all but terror, and my nature certainly gave me little choice but to be the latter.  _

_ It’s when I looked into the associations with my name that it started to seem odd to me. As a child, I learned all I could about Christian mythology. I once told Arthur that I wanted to read up on the competition, but in truth I think I just wanted to hear a story about what it might be like to be a god incarnate, desperately torn between a human and a divine nature. And other cultures have similar stories, of course, but none of them were quite so easy to research in mid-century Britain.  _

_ Other children do the same sort of thing, I think. Seek out stories they can see themselves in. I never really spoke to any at length enough to know for sure. _

_ Well, Agnes was an early saint. A childhood martyr who gladly died for her beliefs. Of course, I scoffed upon learning this. All my life, I was told of my glorious destiny, to burn the entire world in a righteous purge. The thought of my name being associated with one so weak, so easily destroyed, disgusted me. It was my right and my duty to accept sacrifices, to consume them in order to burn brighter. Sharing a name with one of the Christian martyrs, who all died in such amusing ways out of idiotic stubbornness, felt insulting. _

_ Agnes is also associated with the Latin agnus, or lamb. Agnus Dei, lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. Give us peace. One of the many titles the Christians give their Christ. A pitiful little lamb who goes willingly to the slaughter despite all the power he should by rights have possessed. As a child I felt so smug laughing at the fool, dreaming of the day my rage would burn through any who saw me as powerless. But secretly, the whole story made me think that, despite all my power, I too was little more than a pawn in the cosmic scheme of things. It was a feeling I pushed down for many years. Perhaps it’s a feeling you can relate to, Jon.  _

Agnes paused for a moment. It took Jon a moment to realise that she expected a response.

“Er, I never thought of it that way.” Although he hadn’t been raised with any sort of religious upbringing, the comparison felt acutely uncomfortable. The amount of power coursing through him frightened him enough without any comparisons to deities. Even Martin’s use of the word smiting made him cringe. 

“No? The comparison used to amuse me at times, especially when dealing with my own occasionally thick followers who struggled to understand me.” A hint of a smile crossed her lips.

Desperately hoping to change the subject, Jon asked, “What happened next? I know you were sent to Hilltop Road.”

_ Ah, yes. The spider’s stronghold. I was told I was being sent to learn both how to navigate this world and to learn my enemy’s ways, but I knew the truth. My keepers wanted me out of their hair. In the year or two before being sent away, I kept expecting that any moment would be the one when they told me it was time, that the moment was right for my purpose to be fulfilled, and I think they were rather sick of the rage that bubbled up every time they told me I had to wait. _

_ I suppose the years I spent at the halfway house could not truly be called bad. At the very least, it was better than Arthur and Diego’s blundering. They could never decide if it was their duty to give in to my every whim, or if they should fall back on the truisms of their generation, where children were to be seen and not heard. I could never guess which approach they’d try on any given day, and my frustration often left them burned. _

_ For the most part at Hilltop Road, the other children ignored me. They were older than me, and their minds were dulled by the Spider’s influence. I loved watching them, though. Loved seeing them go about their lives, with their petty dramas and concerns. So I watched, and I waited.  _

_ If nothing else, my time there convinced me of the superiority of the Lightless Flame. The subtle machinations of the Web took so long to give the most meagre of returns, and they were nothing as glorious as the flames the Desolation offered. Raymond, though wary, let me do as I pleased, and for the most part I just tried to mimic the behaviours of the others from a distance. I learned to pass as an odd human rather than something altogether different. Still, there remained a tension, as if both of us were just waiting for the other to strike first.  _

_ And at times, being there was the most marvelous game. I saved a boy from being taken by the Web, giving him just the burning hint of free will he needed to escape. Raymond’s rage as the boy walked away from his little trap delighted me. At the time I saw my actions solely as spiting the Web, but looking back I am so very glad I saved him. It’s a small thing, with all those who were sacrificed on my behalf, but it’s a moment I cling to. For one shining moment my destiny meant that someone unexpectedly got to live.  _

_ As the years went by, the struggle between myself and Raymond increased. We both fed the house with as much of our respective powers as we could, and the place took on a life of its own. In the end, I burned it, but that life we gave it remained.  _

_ And then, of course, your predecessor bound me, making use of the Mother of Puppets. I felt it when it happened, but it took me a while to understand. When I figured it out, oh, the way the fire inside me wanted to scream.  _

_ I didn’t, of course. When I was a child I may have struggled with fits of anger, but as I grew expressing myself that way seemed shallow. Unnecessary. Unnatural. No, if my time at Hilltop Road had granted me anything, it was that nothing could break through the calmness I forced upon myself. Because I knew that, as my power grew, if I let out everything that was inside me before the right time, all the cult’s plans would amount to nothing.  _

_ So, I stopped aging, and time passed. We brought more members into the cult, keeping an eye out for those suited to our particular style. Eugene kept me well fed and my followers looked at me with such devotion. But all I could feel was that terrible, crushing weight of my connection with my anchor. My inability to fulfill my destiny. _

_ I channeled that rage, turned it into parables about how the best suffering is the drawn out kind. I tried to encourage our more impulsive members to think through their actions, to not always go straight to total destruction. To really make it count. And then there was Jude. _

_ I knew what she felt for me, of course. But she looked at me so intensely whenever I spoke to her that I could tell she didn’t hear a word I said. She worshipped me as a god, whatever else she felt. While that meant she would give me everything she had, it wasn’t what I wanted.  _

_ I told myself I rejected her to focus on my destiny, but secretly I wanted someone to see me before seeing the fire that burned inside of me. And Jude loved me for the fire above all. _

_ As time went on, the actions I took seemed more and more hollow. I still knew I was meant to be the scourge of the earth, but that day seemed farther and farther away.  _

_ I met Gertrude once. Of course, the one time she wanted to meet me, it was because she wanted something from me. From what I understand that was typical of her. I didn’t mind burning away an interfering spider, of course. You’re not at all like her. Did you know that? _

“Yes. I’ve gathered that. Most think I’m somewhat of a letdown in comparison,” Jon said, amused.

Agnes stared into his eyes as though looking straight through him. “No,” she said decisively. Then, she continued her story. 

_ I had taken to frequenting a coffee shop. I discovered quite young that I didn’t need to eat or drink, but I liked the routine of it. So much so than I returned for many more years than was wise, considering my unaging nature.  _

_ The Canyon Cafe became my refuge. I’ve always loved people watching, or even just staring out into the distance. Often, members of the lightless flame would ask me what I was thinking about, but for most of these moments I thought of nothing at all. It was just moments of blankness, of calm. I just enjoyed watching people going about their daily lives. _

_ Perhaps it is better to say that I tried my best not to think during these times, because whenever I did, I came to a startling conclusion. All these people, the ones ordering cappuccinos and rushing to meetings, greeting friends with a hug and a laugh - I did not want to burn them. The thought of destroying everything felt so powerful and pure, but when I looked out the window, the people weren’t abstract candles filled with pain. They were people. And as distant as I felt from them, the thought of taking away their coffees and lunch dates just made me sad. _

_ As I said, I tried not to think about it. I was raised from birth for a single goal. How could I turn my back on it for a silly coffee shop? _

_ And then there was Jack. I’ve had my share of unwanted attention throughout my life, but Jack was different. He seemed sweet, and after reading my share of romance stories, I thought I’d quite like to see what it would be like.  _

_ I didn’t love him, but I did like him. I may have even liked him romantically. Things really didn’t go on long enough for me to be sure. But my times with him were the happiest in my life. Just listening to him talk about his day to day life was so exotic, so otherworldly to me. And his feelings for me, that existed not for what I was, but simply because I was someone who caught his eye, thrilled me. He was my temptation in the desert. There was no need to offer me all the kingdoms of the world. All I needed was the presence of a kind face and a walk in the park. _

_ Of course, in a way I had the opposite problem I had had with Jude. She saw the flames first and foremost, but he didn’t see them at all. If he had known what I was, would he have still wanted me? I spend more nights asking myself that question than I care to admit. _

_ I used to dream of the day that I’d be released. The day I’d be able to fulfill my destiny. But when I felt the tree at Hilltop Road fall while Jack was right there, everything felt so wrong. Jack was such a dear. He helped me while not having a clue what was happening. Then, he asked me to kiss him. _

_ I should have refused, but it had been so long since I’d experienced any sort of touch. I didn’t even hesitate, just accepted it as the sacrifice he didn’t even know he was making. And as I felt his flesh sizzle underneath my hands, as I felt my lips scorch his, I cried. Just a single tear, but it was more than I’d ever managed before.  _

_ And I knew, I knew without a doubt, that I would not end the world. I convinced one of my people to take him to hospital, and I solemnly explained my plan. As I mentioned before, The Cult of the Lightless Flame, whatever else they are, are not always the brightest. _

_ The highest ranking members of the cult had all, at one point or another, sacrificed themselves to the flames, but I never had. It hadn’t seemed necessary to them or me. After all, if anything I was the flame. But I was also, in many ways, mortal. _

_ So I told them that they had to kill me, and that hopefully I would be able to come back. That I would come back without doubt, ready to fulfill my destiny. _

_ None of them realised that at this moment, not one single doubt remained in my heart. I knew what I had to do. _

_ So I told them to use rope. None of them thought to question it. But think about it. A rope is a form of binding, a representation of everything I hated all those years. In its own way, it was a web to trap me here. And with these things, it is the symbolism that matters. Rather than letting myself go in the hopes of being returned, I tied myself to this earth in the hopes that no matter how they might try, they would never be able to bring me back.  _

_ I found myself scattered. A little girl with pigtails, hiding around the corners of Hilltop Road even before the date of my death. A young woman burning in a flat where I was once asked to start a fire. And even here and now. And these pieces clung to this facade of life even as they burned. If I let go even for a moment, I knew it would only be a matter of time before I was born again. I will not allow the cult to have their resurrection.  _

_ I refused to be a martyr to the cause I was created for. My actions were not out of some devotion to any power, be it good or evil. They were my own. I refused the call I heard all my life. And here I shall remain as long as I am able. _

_ I still wish I knew how things might have gone with Jack. I didn’t love him, but if we had only had more time, I think I would have. And maybe it’s silly, but part of me still wishes I could have tasted ice cream, just one time.  _

“Statement ends,” said Jon gently. There was no fear here, not from her, but the Eye seemed just as content with her sorrow.

Agnes, who had given the whole statement while looking at him, finally glanced away. “Jack, do you know what happened to him?”

The moment she asked, he did know. He wished he didn’t. “He’s close. You left quite an impression on him, I’m afraid. Even more than the burns, you left him with the acute sense that he had lost everything. He thinks he sees you, sometimes, so that this place can feed on his fear of losing you again. For Jack Barnabas, there was never any question that he would be fuel for the fires.”

Agnes just nodded sadly, as though she had expected nothing else. Jon suddenly knew she wanted to cry, but was unable to in this form. And he knew how much she would hate his pity, so he tried his best to hide it.

It was hard to surprise Jon these days, but what she said next did. 

“Now it’s your turn,” she stated. 

He blinked, puzzled. “I’m sorry. I don’t follow.”

“I told you my story. Now it’s your turn,” she repeated.

“That really isn’t how this usually works,” he replied, somewhat amused.

“It only seems fair,” she said. Jon thought that in some ways, things were very simple to Agnes . He envied that a bit.

“Very well. I suppose I can tell you about how I became the Archivist, and how all of this happened,” he said, although he wasn’t looking forward to it.

“No,” she said. “Not just that. I want to know your story. I’ve never met another chosen one. I want to know about your life” 

Jon made a noise of protest, but she pressed on. “We were chosen for this, chosen for the entities whether we wanted it or not. I just want to compare.”

So, Jon told her. He told her of his childhood, of books and bullies and spiders. He told her about his experiences at uni and about his utter cluelessness when he started working in the archives. He tried to focus his story on what drew her interest the most, which seemed to be everything besides how he ended the world. She was an attentive listener, gazing at him in transfixed silence. He sensed boredom with his story of being marked and set up by Jonah, but she clung to every word he said about his relationship with Martin. 

“You’re lucky,” she said, with no jealousy in her voice.

“Yes,” he replied. “I suppose from a certain perspective I rather am.” He wished he could do something, anything for her. But in the end, he had only one possible gift he could give.

“Do you want to stay here?” he asked. “I could end it for you, let you rest.”

She thought about it, then shook her head. “I know that if you chose to, I wouldn’t have a choice. But you said you were trying to fix the world. Do you think you’ll be able to?”

Jon was surprised to find himself telling the truth. “No, I don’t think I will. But I’m still going to make the attempt.”

The flames around her brightened as though in resolve. “Then no. If there is a chance the world could go back, then there is a chance that one day, someone might try to bring me back. So I’d rather stay here, letting the Desolation feed on me rather than innocents sacrificed in my name.”

“The rituals don’t work like we thought. There was never any chance that their plan for you would work,” Jon said.

Agnes played with her hair, thinking this over. As she did, flames danced around her fingertips. “The answer is still no. Even if the ritual itself failed, the harm the attempt would do would be too great. I’ve made my peace with it. This is my place.”

“Alright,” Jon responded. “I guess I will leave you to it, then.” He reached out to shake her ghostly hand, knowing she could not burn him, and she took it in surprise. Then, she pulled him into a gentle hug and kissed his forehead. It was like being hugged by a furnace.

“Good luck, Jon. Thank you for listening.” she said. “And hold him close as long as you can. If you truly want to stop the world from burning, you may find you need to sacrifice everything.”

As Jon left her behind in the clearing, he found himself wondering if he were to be in that position, would he be able to do the same. Like everything concerning Agnes, the question left him filled with doubt. 

“To the chosen ones,” he whispered, and trudged on. 

  
  
  



End file.
